


annie are you okay

by starfishing



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Misogyny, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishing/pseuds/starfishing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>even a vagina couldn't deter him from wanting to jump his own bones.</p><p>maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	annie are you okay

She's already impressed him more than any other woman in his life just by showing up here.  
  
While the rest of the New Directions are fluttering helplessly around Blaine's bedside like a travesty of virgin butterflies, she's here, sassing him in that unfortunately well-tailored suit and artfully tilted hat, looking way better than any lipstick lesbian has any right to while standing in the hallowed halls of this school. Those disgustingly glossy lips open over toxic insults dredged up from the back of her throat. Nothing he says makes it past her bottle-bronze armour. She's a girl after his own heart.  
  
So it's with a lethal combination of grudging respect and pure vindictive queer hostility of the bitchiest order that he circles her in that chair, singing as close to her ear as he dares when she smells like something from Bath and Body Works. She tracks him with her eyes, like a cat watching a mouse stick its head out to check if the coast is clear, like she's just waiting patiently for him to get close enough, like she could take him down anytime, if only she could be bothered.  
  
And when the bridge comes, she's on her feet, circling with him, coming chest-to-chest and she doesn't bat a single mascara-encrusted lash. He's fully half a foot taller than her, more, if she'd take off those damn boots, but she doesn't seem to notice. She holds his gaze from under the brim of her fedora. He feels the room cool down when she moves away.  
  
He doesn't know what he's doing anymore, besides being grateful that he knows all the lyrics to this song (even if he learned them from the Alien Ant Farm cover, a fact he'll take to his grave, lest his queer cred be destroyed). His feet move on their own, which usually only happens when he's drunk, carrying him around the circle of chairs and back into her personal space.   
  
This time, she shoves him. A hand on his chest and his heart hits like a sledgehammer when he realizes: he's so turned on right now.   
  
A lesser man might panic, but he's a performer. He keeps singing, puts a little distance between them, only to have her cross through the center of the circle and throw him this little look, like the guy in leather pants who hangs out at Scandals on Sunday nights and takes the jailbait in the back room. It's a come-with-me look, as if the leather pants aren't enough of an invitation. It's the kind of look that promises to make you late for class on Monday.  
  
He follows her.  
  
Face-to-face again and he thinks he could kiss her if it weren't for the lip gloss. He's afraid he'd never get his mouth off of hers again. (He's thought that about kissing Blaine Anderson, too, but that has less to do with the viscous characteristics of his lips and more to do with what a legendary kisser he is.) It's a relief when the chorus ends and they can back away mutually, widening the circle without conceding anything.  
  
It must be the fact that she's like him. She's a bitch, a predator. He's seeing himself in action and he's liking it. His therapist would say this is some manifestation of narcissism. He'd probably be right. Even a vagina couldn't deter him from wanting to jump his own bones.  
  
Maybe.  
  
The v-word almost does the trick; it conjures up technicolor visions of butcher shops and gaping flesh wounds. It's an instant mood-killer, when its opponent isn't a feisty Latin girl who's right up in his face. Today, it loses.   
  
The number ends with him still hard and her just inches away, and when she tells him she was better, he can't help but grin. She was good. She wasn't better until she said that.   
  
Then she has to go and ruin it by dogging him about that slushie again and reminding him why he _really_ hates women. That's okay.  
  
It's okay, because one of his faithful Warbler lieutenants is standing by, and that cherry slushie in his hand looks like the perfect way to end this conversation.  
  
Misogyny has never looked so cold.


End file.
